April 1991 – 3 years old

Remington stood in the doorway of Sophie's room, leaning with a shoulder against the jamb. Clad only in his pajama bottoms and a robe draped carelessly over his shoulders, he'd felt compelled, for some odd reason, to check upon his youngest daughter before retiring for the evening. The bright pink cast fitted to Livvie's tiny arm seemed to glow in the light of the moon which trickled through the bedroom windows.

He couldn't say why it was he found the cast so… disconcerting. After all, he'd worn many such an apparatus over the years. He'd broken a leg on three different occasions since assuming the guise of Remington Steele, had even suffered a broken arm, himself, as a child.

Not from a fall, said the recesses of his mind.

He'd not been much older than Livvie – three, nearly, but not quite, four. At the last home he'd arrived in just prior to the blissful year he'd spent with the Shannahan's, he recalled. The patriarch had had a quick temper, even faster hand, and ruled the family with an iron fist of brutality. Many a night he'd lain awake listening to the sounds of furniture overturning, glass breaking, the matriarch crying out as the man had beaten her for whatever transgression it was he believed she'd committed. Even as a child, he'd felt helpless, knowing innately that what was happening to the woman was unacceptable.

He'd come to loathe the patriarch. Each time the man's open palm connected with one of the children's faces, the back of their head… each time the strap had left a child with welts scored across their back, their bum.

It had only been a matter of time before his turn arrived. He searched his memory for the reason why, and was left empty handed. Perhaps it had been nothing more than his disdain for the man had shown in his eyes. But, one night the man's ire had turned on him, no matter that he was no more than a little tyke at the time. In a fit of anger, the man had grabbed his arm, twisting it until the defiance had left his eyes. Whatever anger he'd felt was quickly supplanted by blinding pain. He'd howled, he remembered now, as he'd hit his knees.

Only then did the man release him.

He stepped into the room, sat on the edge of the bed in which his daughters were sleeping, caressing Livvie's head with a stroke as light as a whisper.

He'd lain in bed that night, holding the wounded limb, even the smallest of movements making him whimper. It was to his benefit that the woman was kind, if beaten down, for she'd seen to it that he saw the surgeon the following day while the man was at work. Casts then hadn't been as they were now. They'd been big, clunky plaster affairs that were beyond heavy for a small tyke… not to mention buggering itchy.

The worst of it, however, hadn't been the pain. It had been the realization as he'd lain in bed, frightened and in pain, that he was quite alone in the world.

That Livvie might have experienced anything similar? Well, it clawed at his heart, it did.

From the doorway where Laura now stood, she watched the play of emotions over her husband's face, not that they'd been difficult for her to discern: a bad memory first, then the strain of guilt pulling at his eyes and mouth. With a shake of her head, she walked up behind him and laid a comforting hand on his shoulder.

"Olivia's alright, Remington. It's a childhood injury, nothing more," she quietly reassured. The only indication he'd heard her at all, was in the way his free hand covered hers: acceptance of the solace offered.

"We weren't there, Laura," he shared the thought that gnawed at his conscience. "She was likely frightened, needed—" She sat on the bed in front of him, and, facing him, pressed a finger against his lips.

"Don't do this to yourself," she scolded lightly, as she moved her hand to caress his cheek. "I have no idea where you were in that head of yours when I came in, but wherever it was, it is not the same as what happened with Livvie. She wasn't alone or frightened. She had Donald, Frances and Lina with her. You heard her yourself, when we were on the phone with Lina, on the way to the hospital: The only thing she was upset about was having to leave the party. Olivia knows how much we love her, that we would have moved heaven and earth to have been there with her if we could have. That's what matters." He took a deep, shaky breath and let it out, while nodding his head rapidly. Standing, she bent down and bussed him on the forehead. "Say goodnight, Mr. Steele, then come to bed and you can tell me where you were a little bit ago." She ruffed his hair with a hand, then left the room.

Standing, Remington bent over and tucked the sheets around Olivia, taking care to leave her broken wing out to air. He bussed her cheek, then repeated the tuck-in routine for his eldest child who slept on the other side of the bed. As he walked towards the door, Livvie's voice broke the still of the air.

"Da?"she asked.

"Go back to sleep, Livvie Bee," he whispered, so as not to wake Sophie "I was just seeing you and your sister tucked in, safe and sound." He sat down on the edge of the bed and caressed his small daughter's cheek, before leaning down and bussing her, again, on the forehead. "I love you, a stór." Livvie reached up and held a small palm to his cheek.

"I know." With that, she rolled to her side and closed her eyes.

It was yet another way daughter was like her mother. A touch, a simple reassurance, and his heart was immediately lighter than it had been just moments before.

Standing, he left the room and walked towards the master… towards the woman who would find a way to ease the burden of a memory.

A/N: For Chibijem